


Summer Rain

by Nicole2686



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11533953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicole2686/pseuds/Nicole2686
Summary: An essay on summer's rain.





	Summer Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written is a long while and if anyone even clicks I'd be impressed. But I hope whoever does enjoys it.

Summer loves the rain, more than Autumn, more than Spring, more even, than Winter loves the snow, Summer loves the rain. Thunderstorms sweeping in with the smallest breeze and a rumble in the distance—a strike of something, the flash, bright in the corner of your eye, there and gone again before you can turn your head to look. Then—it’s pouring, a deluge of water falling, falling from the sky. So heavy and thick it’s hard to see through and all you can do it watch it fall with a sort of marvel reserved, I would like to think, only for what nature can produce. 

Summer’s showers can be sunny too, let’s not forget. With the sun’s intensity shining down vividly in one corner of the vast sky while it pours over you for longer than a sun-shower has any right to last. Clouds still white and puffy overhead and yet the rain falls anyway. Look down at the ground, at the black pavement and see the subtle glint of a small rainbow, lingering there on the ground, finding its home among the runoff and sun on the ground instead of in the sky.

Summer embraces the rain like an old, welcome, unexpected friend come to visit, not like Spring which always seem to have a more purposeful aim in its showers, like it has a job to do. Not like Autumn, whose storms come in an almost vengeful streak, bringing with them a cold, harsh wind, and it always seems to rain sideways too. Summer greets the rain more like a silent, unexpected blizzard at night in Winter. Falling straight and heavy and sure. A welcome relief from the pressure of waiting for it. That smell in the air. The heady anticipation of it. And when it starts, the sound of the drops on the leaves, each one falling, independent of the other, all combining to make music. The ground taking its full before the slight flooding and the runoff happen. The smell of the damp air in the after, when wind comes in and the clouds dissipate, when the steam rises from the pavement and sidewalks and everything is shiny with a faint glint of sun. 

Thunderstorms in Summer are like morning frost during a warm Winter, sneaking in quietly and turning everything opalescent in an instant, and then, before you can think to look again, it’s gone with the sun, with the warmth that comes in, a blessing and a curse. 

Summer loves long days, when the sun seems to take all day to settle into darkness. The kind that feel dragged out, like you’ve lived three or four days in one. From a foggy dawn to a vividly bright cloudless afternoon and the stormy evening. The rain rushing downwards, impatient from the long wait. And then, quick as it started it’s over and the clouds will part to reveal the brilliance of a sunset. That glowing orange orb sinking low in the sky, turning the remaining clouds around it pink and gold and purple as night falls, swift and graceful. 

If something magical were going to happen I like to think it would take place during a Summer storm. Or perhaps right before, when the tension is thick in the air and, for a moment, everything stands still—like the earth is holding its breath, waiting for something amazing to happen (and the thing is, it does.).


End file.
